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Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Editor's Note:

*For anyone who has followed this blog for any amount of time has come to put up with a few conservation minded posts that have been of my opinion alone. Through the Outdoor Blogger Network, I came across this recent conservation post about Flathead Lake and how the introduction of non-native lake trout has impacted the fishery, and thought it worthwhile to repost it on "Up the Poudre".

The following is a guest post by Chris Schustrom and Bruce Farling.
The two Trout Unlimited officials in Montana are working to protect
native west slope cutthroat trout and bull trout in the Flathead Lake
watershed. This opinion piece is available for posting at The Outdoor Blogger Network.

This spring native westslope cutthroat and bull trout will stage for
their epic journeys from Flathead Lake to spawning streams in the Middle
and North Forks Flathead River. Once quite common, their numbers are
significantly diminished from the recent past because many cannot
navigate the gauntlet of predacious non-native lake trout(and illegally
introduced northern pike)that occupy the lake and river. Our neighbors,
the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, want to bolster the
populations of native fish to once again provide a diverse sport fishery
as well as revive an important part of tribal culture. With the support
of anglers, the assistance of objective science and a review panel of
biologists from state and federal agencies, as well as the university
system, the tribes are working hard to strike a reasonable balance in
the fishery at Flathead Lake. They deserve your support.

Flathead Lake once hosted one of Montana’s most popular and robust
sport fisheries, featuring millions of kokanee salmon, cutthroats,
yellow perch, bull trout and lake trout. Today, the salmon are gone and
cutthroat and bull trout numbers have been reduced dramatically. Also
gone are many fishermen. Perch and lake whitefish remain, but their
availability fluctuates year to year, depending on water levels and
predation. Well-meaning state managers who introduced Mysis shrimp into
the Flathead system in the 1980s triggered the decline in the lake’s
fishery and fishing opportunities. The shrimp provide an ample food
source for young lake trout, improving their survival rates. Once these
lake trout get larger they feed on other fish. In the nineties the
exploding lake trout population consumed about 10 million kokanee in
Flathead Lake, collapsing perhaps the most popular lake fishery in the
state. Angling numbers then dropped by about 50 percent. When the
kokanee disappeared, so did hundreds of bald eagles that gathered each
fall to gorge on spawning salmon at McDonald Creek in Glacier National
Park. Thousands of tourists then stopped coming to view the eagles.
Tourism dollars dropped.

The culprit ... introduced non-native lake trout

The large lake trout population – as well as illegally introduced
northern pike — also preys on bull trout. The result has been an
alarming loss of the native fish in the lake and the connected North and
Middle Forks. Today, adult bull trout in Flathead Lake are estimated to
be only about 3,000 fish. Localized spawning populations continue to
disappear. It is now illegal to fish for them. Scientists estimate lake
trout numbers, however,are around 1.8 million. They are tough to catch
without a large boat and specialized gear. Lake trout migrating from
Flathead Lake have also nearly eliminated bull trout from 10 of 13 lakes
on the west side of Glacier Park. Further, they have severely reduced
cutthroat numbers in the upper Flathead system, reducing their
population to less than half of what they were before Mysis arrived.
Because many of the easier-to-catch cutthroats in the upper Flathead
River system migrate from the lake, angling opportunities – and the
tourism dollars they generate — in the Middle and North Forks are
threatened by lake trout.

The near monoculture of lake trout in Flathead Lake threatens the
future of sportfishing in the upper Flathead basin. The tribes, however,
are addressing this challenge head-on. They are evaluating tools,
including maintaining fishing tourneys coupled with limited and
scientifically based netting, that can reduce the lake trout population
to a reasonable number. This could reduce predation and benefit native
bull and cutthroat trout, as well as other sportfish such as perch and
lake whitefish. It would also still maintain a lake trout fishery for
the minority of anglers who can afford powerboats and the specialized
gear it takes to pursue them. Despite the fears of the small cadre of
commercial charter operators who fish for lake trout, it would be
impossible to eliminate their favored fish from Flathead Lake.

Without new approaches at Flathead Lake, bull trout and cutthroat
trout will eventually be reduced to a tiny fraction of their historical
numbers, or even extirpated. Without new approaches, angling
opportunities and the economic benefits they generate, will continue to
dwindle. Without trying, and instead turning the lake and river over to
lake trout, we will be judged harshly by future Montanans who will never
feel the tug of a large cutthroat on their line at Flathead Lake.

Bruce Farling is the executive director of Montana Trout Unlimited.
Chris Schustrom is the president of the Flathead Valley Chapter of Trout
Unlimited.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

The television groaned unintelligibly from the other room,
leaving two dogs confused on the couch. Pundits seemed to be squawking about
the impending doom of a nation, while the two bulldogs sat patiently, waiting
for the channel to be tuned back to something more “comfortable”. The last
three times CiCi tried to change the channel on her own, it cost me the remote.
It is an expensive habit that I am trying to break, leaving the changer on the
couch that is. Grabbing the remote from the chest that doubles as our coffee
table, both dogs watched as I punched in the three numbers that bring Saturday
morning animation. I reminded Rex that I used to watch the same thing at his
age. He smiled.

With the dogs taken care of, I walked back to the small room
that I have claimed as my own. It isn’t big by any stretch of the imagination,
but it is big enough for my desk, chair, and most importantly, the fly fishing
gear that I have dutifully accumulated over the years. And taking one look into
the southeast corner of the space, I can confidently say that I have been doing
everything in my power to stimulate the economy. It feels good.

Un-emptied boxes lay scattered on the floor, ready to be
aired out from a move that happened three weeks ago, but a transition that is
still uncomfortably new. But
soon enough, the books, videos, tying materials, vise, and any other unnecessary,
but still very pertinent objects will find a spot that will define their home.
Or at the very least, the junk will get respite from its confinement in the
cardboard where it now sits idle. Maybe idle is okay.

The smell of the fresh paint has started to fade, all but
replacing an old tenant’s enthusiasm. Two coats took care of that. Two coats
that replace memories that were not mine, but respectfully acknowledge a past I
didn’t know. Much like the slide that pours off our deck into a small garden, I
don’t ask questions, I simply appreciate the whimsy. A whimsy that makes it
tolerable to pull half a dozen wall anchors out of a six inch by six inch
square, or replace the shower/sauna grade “can” lights that gave little to no
light in the dining room and kitchen . This house was not ours to judge, we came
in late. It just happens to be our turn in the rotation to make this home our
own.

I recounted the rods, trying not to be caught doing any real
work to my new space. Maybe idle is okay, I’ll go check on the dogs.

Friday, March 9, 2012

A piercing wind cut down the exposed canyon, hitting my neck
with an unbridled ferocity that quickly took the romance out of the task at
hand. The unwelcomed gust pushed me back, forcing ten toes to clench numbingly
to two frozen soles. I pulled the hood over my ears and hat, reminding myself
that I used to live in North Dakota, and even though I was hit, I wasn’t soft.
I refocused my eyes on the water, just in time to watch the two familiar nymphs
skate across its surface. So much for line control I thought, as the faux bugs
took flight behind me. At least I wouldn’t
have to worry about my backcast.

The next cast, I watched the wind push my line downstream, sending confirmation that my flies weren’t anywhere close to where the fish were feeding in
the water column. What else was new? The cold started to set in as I checked my flies for
imperfections and the leader for any knot I hadn’t tied. Snipping off the
bottom fly, I traded it for something with a tungsten bead and a little more
weight. Regardless, with the steady gale, the change was made for nothing more than peace of mind.

Jake and I had made plans to fish a few days earlier at a
Trout Unlimited banquet, where he and a few of the other local tiers were
showcasing their skills and raising money for the chapter. Jake was tying a few
articulated streamers, demonstrating a particular pattern that had been
wreaking havoc on the city trout of Fort Collins. While the other tiers, showed
off flies that ranged from practical to artistic, but all could be fished if
one chose to do so. Although visually, many of these flies have been tied for the fisherman's eye alone, they are touted as the must haves, that is, if you are a respectable fly fisherman. I’m not so sure, as my vise has the tendency to prove, ugly bugs can and will catch
fish too. You just need to appreciate them for what they are, tools. How many
times have you heard someone say, “Wow…that sure is a pretty looking hammer”?

Two weeks earlier, Jake and I had fished the same stretch of
water with a certain degree of success. A day measured in inches rather than numbers. A day that gave my rod a stretch
that it hadn’t felt in a long time, almost making me think that I actually knew what I
was doing. This day, there would be three of us, Jake, his dad Scott, and myself.
I was happy to be included for reasons I hadn’t explored, but have suspicions
that it had something to do with the fact that I don’t get to spend enough time
with my dad. I miss the days where we would play nine holes of golf after work
or school, connecting more as friends, rather than just father and son. Now, there
are too many miles between us to make it happen as often as I would like. But
that might be a simplified excuse, as I surely took living so close to him for
granted, and didn’t spend enough time with him when I had the chance. Either
way, you live and learn on your own schedule. You gain perspective when you have
the luxury to look back, finding now an appreciation for things that might have seemed insignificant at the time.

The line was blown into a deep bow floating downstream, the
result of a poorly timed mend that had started the flies swinging early. I dropped the tip of my rod low to the water, in
a weak attempt to keep as much line out of the wind as possible. And as the flies
swung perpendicular to where I was standing, a small flash straightened the
lines bend. The hook had been set, the drag sang in approval. I took three
steps downstream as the fish turned back towards me, and was greeted with the
arrival of Jake, his dad, and a net.

We took turns fishing the run for the next hour or so. Scott
landed a nice rainbow, Jake was content throwing streamers in vain, while I was
happy to get my feet out of the water long enough to recognize the tingling of
recovery. It was the same feeling I got as a kid, when we’d play hockey outside.
We would skate until we couldn’t feel our fingers and feet, and then retreat to
the warming house to appreciate the shelters comfort. Although, we never did
quite warm ourselves properly, the windows were too revealing, while the ice was
too inviting. Even after dark, if the lights were on, there was a game to be
played. And as innocent as we were, we all knew that dinner would be waiting
for us when we got home.

I worked the nymphs deep, trying to find the fish that had
been rising a few minutes earlier. The wind seemed to be gaining in confidence,
making the simple routine frustrating. I blew warm air into my left hand as I
felt a merciless chill creep down my neck. My flies were drifting out of
control, they had been lost to two currents, both air and water. My day was
over.

I climbed onto the bank and took a seat. Wedging my boots
between the uneven rock, I anchored myself to the ground. It was a
half-hearted attempt to stay out of the wind, but an attempt none-the-less. I
wiggled my toes and rubbed my hands together for warmth, trying to coax fingers
and feet back to life. But as the day’s light started to fade, I watched Jake come
tight to a fish, letting me know that it was my turn on the net. And as the familiar scene revealed itself before me, I stood up.

Monday, March 5, 2012

I was excited when presented with the opportunity to review
the Sonic Pro Wader Pant from Redington. I had been in the market for a good
pair of wading pants for the last year or so, and had been a little reluctant
to pull the trigger because the traditional waders that I own work just fine,
and on most hot days I wet wade anyway. But I was searching in hopes of finding
a reasonably priced pair of pants that could bridge the gap between confused fishing
seasons. I needed something to wear when it was too warm to wear full
breathable waders all day, but still too cold to comfortably wet wade for hours
on end. So, finding a pair of pants
seemed like a logical thing to do.

Having spent a few days on the water with the pants since
receiving them a couple of weeks ago, I was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable
they are. They are extremely light, much lighter than my traditional waders,
and are noticeably more comfortable when walking trails down to the water. The
pants are nice in the sense that if you want to fish light, they seem to
provide you with an option that keeps you comfortable enough to realistically
fish them in both cold and warm weather.

I was impressed with the design, as these pants seem to have
many creature comforts reserved for some of the more expensive pants that are
on the market. I especially like the option of being able to tighten the built-in
belt as well as having removable suspenders for extra support. The pockets add a nice
touch as well, giving at least a little storage to the pants.

Overall, these pants seem to fit the bill for what I was
looking for. They are light, durable, well built, and most importantly,
comfortable. I look forward to putting them through the paces this spring and
summer as the weather gets warmer, and from everything that I am seeing from
the get go, I won’t be disappointed.

Pros:

·Light weight material makes these waders extremely
comfortable, even in the colder weather.

·Constructed and built with the fisherman in
mind, mixing durable materials and comforts, so not to be confused with thoughts
like, “Will these waders just keep me dry, or will the perform in a way that I
can appreciate while on the water?”

·Reasonably priced (comparatively)

Cons:

·The hook on the gravel guard is plastic, and
unlike other waders I own, seems to come unpinned frequently.

·The neoprene socks were advertised (on a medium)
to fit a size 8-10, I found them to be a little small. Just make sure to try
them on before buying or ordering.

In my opinion, these pants are worth a look the next time
you find yourself in the market for a good pair of wading pants. And at
$229.95, they aren’t cheap, but they are worth the investment. Now, if they could only help me catch more fish...

Thursday, March 1, 2012

I just saw it. It was somewhere between here and there, last
seen sometime between last Wednesday night and early yesterday morning. It’s
been a little over two weeks since my last home cooked meal, and a few heavy
cardboard boxes seem to be playing cat and mouse with the crockpot I am
desperately trying to find. It won’t be the end of the world if we don’t find
it, but my “Supersized” eating habits are starting to take their toll. And
unlike some blurred college memories, a fridge filled with a couple of six
packs of beer and some bagels aren’t the sustenance they used to be. Well, to
be more honest, the bagels just aren’t cutting it.

It used to be that moving involved a full SUV, a friend who
had nothing better to do, and a solid afternoon of packing and travel. But over
the course of the last eight or so years, I have become a collector of things, not
one thing in particular, just a collection of many things that may or may not
be important. Like the Batman piggy bank, two cases of pint glasses, more
knives than anyone could possibly ever need, three sets of golf clubs, a tennis
racket, two unused sets of dinnerware, a cool looking guitar, a waffle maker, a
margarita maker, t-shirts that used to be clever, rolled up rugs, old Jimmy
Buffett records, framed prints of bird dogs and pheasants, a backscratcher, ten
dog bowls, v-neck sweaters of comfortable material, sea shells I was gifted, interesting
“I Love Fargo” paraphernalia, two hockey sticks, Pearl Jam posters, and a
myriad of other junk that not one person other than myself could understand the
impulse to buy, or acquire such things. Now, add the important things; like the
wife, dogs, and fly fishing gear, and what used to be one trip with the truck
is now three. You'd think we were buying girls scout cookies just for the boxes.

In Fruita, a small town on the western slope of Colorado,
they celebrate a famous headless chicken named Mike. And as the story goes, a hungry
farmer named Lloyd Olsen was sent out by his wife to get a proper fryer ready
for the night’s supper with his in-laws. With knife in hand, he went through with his wife's plan to slaughter “Mike”,
the most impressive chicken on the lot. But
when the unsuspecting farmer cut off old Mike’s head, the valiant rooster forgot
to succumb to the mighty blow. Olsen was so astonished that the chicken didn’t fall
over, that he let him be. And upon finding Mike the next morning asleep with
his chiseled head secured under one of his feathery wings, the legend was born.
Mike lived without a head for the next eighteen months, finally choking to
death in a motel room somewhere in the Arizona desert. A tragic end to be sure.

We moved south, just twelve miles as the crow flies. And somewhere
between Fort Collins and Loveland, I lost my crockpot. I can’t seem to find it
anywhere, so like Mike the headless chicken, I move on. Blissfully unaware of
what might be hiding under my nose.